"I tell you everything you need to know," she said calmly. "Right now it’s not necessary for you to know anything about Rivan kings or Nyissan queens."
"All you want to do is keep me an ignorant child," Garion said petulantly. "I’m almost a man, and I don’t even know what I am—or who."
"I know who you are," she said, not looking up.
"Who am I then?"
"You’re a young man who’s about to catch his shoes on fire," she said.
He jerked his feet back quickly.
"You didn’t answer me," he accused.
"That’s right," she said in that same infuriatingly calm voice.
"Why not?"
"It’s not necessary for you to know yet. When it’s time, I’ll tell you, but not until."
"That’s not fair," he objected.
"The world’s full of injustice," she said. "Now, since you’re feeling so manly, why don’t you fetch some more firewood? That’ll give you something useful to think about."
He glared at her and stamped across the room.
"Garion," she said.
"What?"
"Don’t even think about slamming the door."
That evening when Wolf and Silk returned, the usually cheerful old man seemed impatient and irritable. He sat down at the table in the common room of the inn and stared moodily at the fire. "I don’t think it
passed this way," he said finally. "There are a few places left to try, but I’m almost certain that it hasn’t been here."
"Then we go on to Camaar?" Barak rumbled, his thick fingers combing his bristling beard.
"We must," Wolf said. "Most likely we should have gone there first."
"There was no way to know," Aunt Pol told him. "Why would he go to Camaar if he’s trying to carry it to the Angarak kingdoms?"
"I can’t even be certain where he’s going," Wolf said irritably. "Maybe he wants to keep the thing for himself. He’s always coveted it." He stared into the fire again.
"We’re going to need some kind of cargo for the trip to Camaar," Silk said.
Wolf shook his head. "It slows us too much," he said. "It’s not unusual for wagons to return to Camaar from Muros without cargo, and it’s reaching the point where we’ll have to gamble our disguise for the sake of speed. It’s forty leagues to Camaar, and the weather’s turning bad. A heavy snowstorm could stop the wagons entirely, and I don’t have time to spend the whole winter mired down in a snowbank."
Durnik dropped his knife suddenly and started to scramble to his feet.
"What’s amiss?" Barak asked quickly.
"I just saw Brill," Durnik said. "He was in that doorway."
"Are you sure?" Wolf demanded.
"I know him," Durnik said grimly. "It was Brill, all right."
Silk pounded his fist down on the table.
"Idiot!" he accused himself. "I underestimated the man."
"That doesn’t matter now," Mister Wolf said, and there was almost a kind of relief in his voice. "Our disguise is useless now. I think it’s time for speed."
"I’ll see to the wagons," Durnik said.
"No," Wolf said. "The wagons are too slow. We’ll go to the camp of the Algars and buy good horses." He stood up quickly.
"What of the wagons?" Durnik persisted.
"Forget them," Wolf said. "They’re only a hindrance now. We’ll ride the wagon horses to the camp of the Algars and take only what we can conveniently carry. Let’s get ready to leave immediately. Meet me in the innyard as soon as you can." He went quickly to the door and out into the cold night.
It was only a few minutes later that they all met near the door to the stable in the cobblestoned innyard, each carrying a small bundle. Hulking Barak jingled as he walked, and Garion could smell the oiled steel of his mail shirt. A few Bakes of snow drifted down through the frosty air and settled like tiny feathers to the frozen ground.
Durnik was the last to join them. He came breathlessly out of the inn and pressed a small handful of coins upon Mister Wolf.
"It was the best I could do," he apologized. "It’s scarce half the worth of the wagons, but the innkeeper sensed my haste and bargained meanly." He shrugged then. "At least we’re rid of them," he said. "It’s not good to leave things of value behind. They nag at the mind and distract one from the business at hand."
Silk laughed. "Durnik," he said, "you’re the absolute soul of a Sendar."
"One must follow one’s nature," Durnik said.
"Thank you, my friend," Wolf said gravely, dropping the coins in his purse. "Let’s lead the horses," he went on. "Galloping through these narrow streets at night would only attract attention."
"I’ll lead," Barak announced, drawing his sword. "If there’s any trouble, I’m best equipped to deal with it."
"I’ll walk along beside you, friend Barak;" Durnik said, hefting a stout cudgel of firewood.
Barak nodded, his eyes grimly bright, and led his horse out through the gate with Durnik closely at his side.
Taking his lead from Durnik, Garion paused momentarily as he passed the woodpile and selected a good oak stick. It had a comforting weight, and he swung it a few times to get the feel of it. Then he saw Aunt Pol watching him, and he hurried on without any further display.
The streets through which they passed were narrow and dark, and the snow had begun to fall a bit more heavily now, settling almost lazily through the dead calm air. The horses, made skittish by the snow, seemed to be fearful and crowded close to those who led them.
When the attack came, it was unexpected and swift. There was a sudden rush of footsteps and a sharp ring of steel on steel as Barak fended off the first blow with his sword.
Garion could see only shadowy figures outlined against the falling snow, and then, as once before when in his boyhood he had struck down his friend Rundorig in mock battle, his ears began to ring; his blood surged boilingly in his veins as he leaped into the fight, ignoring the single cry from Aunt Pol.
He received a smart rap on the shoulder, whirled and struck with his stick. He was rewarded with a muffled grunt. He struck again—and then again, swinging his club at those parts of his shadowy enemy which he instinctively knew were most sensitive.
The main fight, however, surged around Barak and Durnik. The ring of Barak’s sword and the thump of Durnik’s cudgel resounded in the narrow street along with the groans of their assailants.
"There’s the boy!" a voice rang out from behind them, and Garion whirled. Two men were running down the street toward him, one with a sword and the other with a wicked-looking curved knife. Knowing it was hopeless, Garion raised his club, but Silk was there. The small man launched himself from the shadows directly at the feet of the two, and all three crashed to the street in a tangle of arms and legs. Silk rolled to his feet like a cat, spun and kicked one of the floundering men solidly just below the ear. The man sank twitching to the cobblestones. The other scrambled away and half rose just in time to receive both of Silk’s heels in his face as the rat-faced Drasnian leaped into the air, twisted and struck with both legs. Then Silk turned almost casually.
"Are you all right?" he asked Garion.
"I’m fine," Garion said. "You’re awfully good at this kind of thing."
"I’m an acrobat," Silk said. "It’s simple once you know how."
"They’re getting away," Garion told him.
Silk turned, but the two he had just put down were dragging themselves into a dark alley.
There was a triumphant shout from Barak, and Garion saw that the rest of the attackers were fleeing.
At the end of the street in the snow-speckled light from a small window was Brill, almost dancing with fury. "Cowards!" he shouted at his hirelings. "Cowards!" And then Barak started for him, and he too turned and ran.
"Are you all right, Aunt Pol?" Garion said, crossing the street to where she stood.
"Of course I am," she snapped. "And don’t do that again, young man. Leave street brawling to those better suited for it."
"I was all right," he objected. "I had my stick here."
"Don’t argue with me," she said. "I didn’t go to all the trouble of raising you to have you end up dead in a gutter."